


This Learning To Live Again Is Killing Me

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Asshole Derek, Blow Jobs, Communication, Depression, Disabled Derek, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends Derek and Erica and Boyd, Friends Stiles and Erica and Boyd, Kate Argent Warning, M/M, Minor Asphyxiation Kink, Pain Killer Addiction, Self Medicating, Unwarned Kink, Werewolves are Somewhat Known, Widower Stiles, dating again, description of torture, introductions, medication mentions, mentioned masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27699505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Stiles Stilinski lost his wife three years ago in a drunk-driving "accident." In an attempt to help get him back on his feet, his grief-share friends, Erica and Boyd, invite him out to dinner with another friend of theirs. It's not a date, they promise.One year ago, Derek Hale was abducted and tortured nearly to death. In fact, the only reason he's still alive is because he's a werewolf, and the only reason he was abducted was because he was a werewolf. To help him get out of the pit of despair he's currently wallowing in, his friends, Boyd and Erica, invite him out to dinner with another friend of theirs.While they are definitely each other's type, neither are fully in a place where they can express that. A few dinners later, some self-revelations, and self-work, and there just might be something there.Oh this learning to live again is killing me
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Laura Hale/OMC, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, past Stiles Stilinski/Heather (Teen Wolf)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 139
Collections: 12 Days of Sterek





	This Learning To Live Again Is Killing Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Garth Brooks' _Learning to Live Again_.
> 
> Tags are a very big indicator of what goes on in the story. Please heed them.
> 
> Thanks to [12DaysofSterek](https://12daysofsterek.tumblr.com/) for inspiring over 13K words from me, I really needed it! 😊

~ * ~

The accident was nearly three years ago, but some days Stiles still expects to roll over and find Heather next to him.

Every time he finds the bed empty, it makes his heart stutter, and he sits up in a panic, looking around. Finding her Remembrance on the night stand, next to their framed wedding photo, makes him start crying.

Three years.

Three years and he is still in love with his dead wife.

He knows grieving takes time. As a marriage counselor Before, he’d tried to get his clients to understand that things took time. Nothing was instantaneous, and while a quick fix might seem glittering gold and perfect, it still had its flaws too.

His father had tried helping him, knowing all too well what Stiles was going through. In his anger at the world After, Stiles had lashed out. No, Dad didn’t know what he was going through. He got to say goodbye to Mom before she died. Stiles didn’t even know if he’d said “I love you” to Heather before a drunk driver hit her head on.

At first, Dad had taken the abuse, knew that part of grief at least, but then Stiles had been too cruel for too long, and Dad said “You know where to find me” and left him alone.

Stiles had taken himself to grief counseling almost immediately afterward.

Now, instead of lashing out at his dwindling support group, he’s working through the stages as they ebb and flow.

Through grief counseling, he met his new best friend, Erica, and her husband Boyd. Both of whom were slowly trying to draw Stiles out of his shell.

They’d lost their daughter. Ruled accidental drowning when a babysitter was caring for her. Neglect in one of its purest forms.

They were almost ready to try again but were extremely cautious because they’d lost their families’ support when they pursued charges against the woman they’d hired for the night.

Stiles knew if they ever asked him, he’d be honored, would make sure their child was cared for as best he could, and would not be left alone in a bathtub.

He sighs, scrubbing away the remnants of this morning’s tears. If Erica and Boyd can get back up after their tragedy, he should be able to as well. Today, he will ignore the voice inside him that says he is allowed to wallow. Usually he listens a little too much to that voice.

He has things he needs to do. One of which is to see if he can get his old job back.

Three years is a long time though. Most people were kind for the first six months, maybe even the first year. After that, empathy ran dry.

Stiles sighs again. If he doesn’t move, he is likely to just crawl back in bed and go back to sleep. But he needs to get up! There are things to do! He has an appointment with his old boss at 3:00, and before that, an appointment with his psychiatrist to adjust the dosage of antidepressants he is currently on. Then, he wants to call his dad, see if he is available for dinner.

It isn’t a lot and yet it is. If he thinks about it too long, he’ll be able to convince himself that he’d be better off letting things go.

Stiles forces himself up and shuffles into the kitchen where he uses Heather’s favorite mug filled with tap water to wash down his pills. Zoloft, Allegra, and a multivitamin.

It is as good of a start to the day as any he’s had lately, so he uses the little energy he has and hops in the shower.

By the time he gets out and puts on clean clothes, he feels almost normal, comparatively. There’s still a dark cloud on his heels, but if he doesn’t look back, it’s like it’s not there.

It’s only 10:30 in the morning so he decides to call his dad before he loses the energy after his other appointments.

Dad picks up on the second ring. “Son.”

“Dad.” Stiles has to cough to clear his throat. He needs to apologize, but he can never find the words. Instead, he clears his throat again and asks after his plans.

“Busy today, I’m afraid,” Dad says. “How about Saturday?”

Today is Tuesday.

“Sure,” Stiles says, grabbing a pen and some paper to write it down. He sticks it to his fridge with the cat magnet Heather got him for their first anniversary. “Hey, I’ve got a job interview this afternoon. I-I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Sure. Would love to hear it. Call after 5:00 but before 7:00. I’ve got the late shift today.”

Stiles doesn’t feel drained when Dad hangs up, so he decides to actually cook something for lunch before he has to meet with Dr. Deaton at 1:00.

Something simple, he decides, picking out some fresh fruits and vegetables Erica must have dropped off for him in the last few days.

She and Boyd have been helping him a lot lately. Stiles wants to return the favor. His dad is busy tonight, but what about Erica and Boyd?

Stiles calls Erica first. He gets her voicemail. Understandable. She works right now.

He tries Boyd and gets him.

“Hey, plans tonight?” Stiles asks, a little hopeful.

Boyd shrugs, which Stiles only knows because he pins the phone between his shoulder and ear while he keeps working on things and the rustling of his shirt gives it away. “I’d have to ask Erica,” he finally says. “Is tonight the only night you’re available?”

“I don’t know yet,” Stiles admits. “I have an interview later. And if that doesn’t pan out, I’ll probably be free every night except Saturday. I’m meeting my dad then.”

“Oh,” Boyd says, taciturn, but Stiles can hear the intrigue in his voice. He and Erica both know how much Stiles wants to reconnect with his dad. “That’s good. Let me see if Erica can talk, and then I’ll call you back. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Stiles looks at the food he’s pulled out. Now he’s too nervous to cook so he puts it away and then makes a sandwich.

Hey, food is food. Deaton will be proud that Stiles managed to get out of bed, have a shower, call three people, even if one of them didn’t pick up, and eat something.

~ * ~

Derek sits at his computer and slowly pecks his way across the keyboard.

He pushes the mouse over the first link and clicks on it.

_Kate Argent: Werewolf Abuser Sentenced to Seven Years_ the headline screams. Kate’s smiling picture isn’t any better. She actually looks kind and normal not sadistic and cruel. Derek scrolls down, scanning the article. Just enough to know that her only known victim hasn’t been identified yet.

It’s just a matter of time.

There were pictures taken. There’s a video too.

Derek scrolls down more to the comment section. So many people typing that if she was abusing them, they’d have let her. No doubt, taken in by her pretty face and blinding smile.

Derek wonders if they knew exactly what she did, if they’d still want to be abused by her.

The only reason Derek is still alive is because he’s a werewolf.

He stabs at the x button to close the browser and then pushes back from the desk. He knows he’s not supposed to look up any articles about what happened because it makes him unhappy and his doctor doesn’t like him doing things that make him unhappy.

Derek has an appointment with Dr. Deaton at 3:00 today, and he fully plans on just sitting there and glaring. It’s surprisingly effective and it makes Derek feel better. If only for the fifteen to thirty minutes of the session.

He stands up, stumbling as his leg doesn’t work right anymore. A leftover remnant of having his spine severed.

He has a cane around here that he’s supposed to use, but he has too much anger and ends up throwing it aside because he can’t get around as well as he used to. So many people look at him and see a healthy man. Then he tries moving too quickly and the scents around him go so thoroughly disgusted that even his nose can pick it up. He’s just a broken husk of a person. A useless drain on society.

He has to live with his sister now because he can’t climb stairs anymore. He should have fully healed or died, but instead, he’s stuck in between with no control over his left leg and just enough strength left in the right that he keeps trying to kick ass and ends up face on the floor.

Kate targeted him because he’s a werewolf, a “pretty” smile, she’d said as she carved pieces of his flesh off his back.

She mailed his tattoo to his sister but had failed to fully cleanse her scent. Laura found her and brought the whole Sheriff’s Department of Beacon County with her.

Now, nearly a year later, Derek is mostly recovered, but he never will fully heal, and his natural healing has slowed to just a little faster than human. He can’t pick up chemosignals as well anymore.

He has trouble with his shift.

He is, in all aspects of the words, a disabled werewolf.

But he’s still alive.

Derek limps heavily into the kitchen. No cane here, but he is a little hungry. At least until he opens the fridge and smells the raw steaks Laura is planning on grilling later.

_Such a pretty smile, Derek. Bet you got all the girls coming up to you, ‘why don’t you smile more?’_

He dry heaves and slams the door shut. Then he limps back to the living room. No cane again.

He looks at the stairs he hasn’t climbed in months, wondering if it somehow got up there.

With a frustrated growl, Derek shuffles into the bathroom. His energy is flagging, and he drops gratefully onto the closed lid of the toilet.

And he finds his cane tucked behind the tank. He must have left it here earlier. Laura isn’t home right now and she doesn’t move his cane on him unless he’s really being a jerk.

Which is often, honestly.

Deaton is trying to get Derek to explain why he’s taking his anger and fear out on his sister, but Derek doesn’t know why, okay? He just does. Laura makes an easy target because she hasn’t abandoned him.

Derek lowers his head to his knees, back screaming in pain as he tries to stretch something that shouldn’t be stretched. Or can’t be stretched. He forgets the terminology sometimes.

He misses being able to be thrown into a wall and shaking it off.

He used to go out to bars, break up fights, get knocked down, and come back for more.

He’s not working anymore. Can’t stay awake through the day because of the heavy narcotics Deaton prescribes him just to let him have a few pain free moments.

Which reminds him: it’s time for another dose. He can feel it in his bones. He can’t miss any doses or he gets shaky and the pain comes back stronger. And he has to take more of them than he should.

Derek gets up, leaning heavily on the cane. He’s using it on the wrong side, according to his physiotherapist, but Derek doesn’t care. He feels more secure with it in his left hand. He manages to make it to the kitchen, swallow his pills dry, and get to his room without incident. Then, he faceplants on the bed, turns his head so that he can breathe, and _bam_ , lights out.

Night-night, Derek.

_Sleep tight, sweetie._

~ * ~

Stiles scratches his neck. He’d shaved specifically for his job interview. Had forgotten to until he was almost ready to get ready for his meeting with Deaton. He’d rushed it and he knows he has a few nicks, a few missed patches. A little clotting agent and he’s good to go. He hopes the patches aren’t too obvious. Twenty-eight and he still can’t grow a proper beard. Heather used to think it was adorable and beg him to shave if he let his scruff grow into scruffy.

Deaton nods at the beardlessness of his face, holds out his hand for a high five—the most physical contact Stiles is comfortable giving and receiving since he can no longer hug his wife.

They trade pleasantries for a few minutes before Deaton sets his pen down, nods at Stiles, and asks him how his day is going.

“Great,” Stiles says brightly, and means it this time. He tells Deaton all about what he’s done. He gets another high five for all the things he’s accomplished.

“And I’m meeting Erica and Boyd for dinner tonight,” he confides, having received the confirmation from Boyd about fifteen minutes before arriving at the clinic. “Are you sure my dosages should be changed?”

“What’s different?” Deaton asks. “Do you feel different? Do you feel like they need to be changed? You’ve been on this dosage for six months. That’s long enough to make a decision.”

Stiles thinks about it before nodding slowly. “I need them changed. I still have so many bad days.”

“I will get a script for you,” Deaton says. “Now, do you have anything else you’d like to talk about?”

Stiles doesn’t but he does want to know what to expect with a different dosage or maybe even different medications, and Deaton takes the time to explain them to him before he looks at the clock.

“Okay, I think that’s enough for today. You should eat a little something more if you can and then head to your interview. I look forward to hearing about it, and I wish you well.”

Stiles high fives Deaton and heads out. He schedules another appointment with the front desk and then hits a drive thru on his way to his interview.

Nothing seems good to eat so he settles on curly fries—easily reheated in the oven at home—and goes to his old workplace.

“Stiles,” Dr. Marin Morrell greets him. She offers her hand to shake, and Stiles does, another point to be proud of.

They sit and begin talking.

In the end, Stiles understands completely, but Marin doesn’t feel comfortable hiring him back just yet.

Stiles knows he needs a job. The insurance money from Heather is running out. He manages to shake Marin’s hand again, and then goes to his car.

He doesn’t do anything for a long moment before his phone trills loudly, startling him.

“Hey, Stiles,” Erica says, “I know you have an interview and that you’re meeting us tonight, but I wanted to ask if you’d mind if I brought someone with.”

“Someone?”Stiles stares down at his phone. “Someone who?” he asks. “Someone I know?”

“No. Not at all. He’s a friend of Boyd’s. He’s, well, he’s a little like you. We want to get him out of the house, but we’re not sure how to do it.”

“So inviting him to dinner with someone he doesn’t know is the way to do it?”

Erica laughs nervously. “He refuses to come with us. We’re almost certain that if we tell him that someone else is coming with, he’ll either tell us to fuck off again or he’ll be curious enough to come see who it is.”

“‘Curiosity killed the cat,’” Stiles quotes.

“‘But satisfaction brought it back,’” Erica quotes back. “I don’t know how appropriate that colloquialism is for Derek, but please, can we bring him?”

“I think that’s more up to him,” Stiles says, “but sure, you can bring him to our dinner.”

Erica thanks him profusely, and right before she hangs up, she asks about the job interview.

“Well, uh, yeah, I didn’t get it. Like, outright. They’re not even going to think about it right now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. That sucks. Dinner is on us tonight.”

They exchange goodbyes and then Stiles hangs up. He sets his phone down on the passenger seat, lowers his head to the steering wheel, and starts crying.

Today had started so well. He’d gotten more done in an hour than he had in months. He needs to just keep the momentum going, but it’s hard.

Well, at least he can go home while he waits for tonight.

He picks his head up, wipes off the tears, secures his phone, and starts driving.

When he gets home, he puts the cold fries in the fridge, unsure if he even feels like eating them anymore. He sets his phone to charge. And then, because there is nothing else to do, nothing to distract his depressive mood, he climbs back into bed and closes his eyes.

~ * ~

Deaton looks unimpressed when Derek shuffles into his room.

Derek doesn’t care. He tosses his empty prescription bottle at Deaton and sits down on the couch. He usually sits in a chair but his leg is bothering him enough that he wants to be able to stretch it out.

Deaton places the bottle on the edge of his desk, flips open his notebook, pen poised.

“Tell me, Derek, how have you been sleeping?”

Derek rolls his shoulders. He sleeps only when he has enough Vicodin in his system that he doesn’t feel the pain of his never-healing spine. Normally, when a spinal cord is severed, all feeling is lost. Well apparently it’s the opposite when the blade has been treated with wolfsbane. He can still feel the blade as it dug into his flesh sometimes.

“That well, huh?” Deaton scribbles something. Derek leans back and stares at the ceiling.

He swallows hard, thinking about the article, about the pictures that were taken after the deputies realized that he wasn’t healing.

Kate’s getting seven years because of him. It should be more.

“I read the article,” he confesses quietly.

Deaton doesn’t respond.

“About Kate,” he clarifies. “Why did she only get seven years?”

“That I do not know. What I do know is that you are the only one of her victims who was able to testify.”

And he hadn’t even been able to do that. He’d been so out of it, in pain, scared, and angry. He hadn’t been nearly coherent enough to testify over video.

Laura and the prosecutor had recorded him anyway.

He didn’t remember it, but he’s seen the video. Someone leaked it online. He was so drugged that he couldn’t say a damn word. Laura had done the talking, explaining about his tattoo, about how he wasn’t healing, how because of Kate, he was nearly human and nearly dead. And he’d pissed himself in the middle of it. He’d had a catheter in, but it must have come loose. He isn’t embarrassed about it anymore, but it made Laura think about suing the hospital for inadequate care.

“If I’d been human, I’d have died,” he tells Deaton. “And she’d have either gotten away with it or gotten more time.”

“And would that make you feel any better?” Deaton lays his pen down and fixes a steady gaze on Derek, who averts his eyes to the ceiling again.

“No,” he admits to the tiles above. “How much longer?”

“Five minutes,” Deaton says. “Can you tell me how the article made you feel?”

Derek thinks about not answering, but his resolve is already crumbling. He knows he’s being a shitty brother to Laura, and that’s what he wants to fix. He doesn’t care if Deaton does anything else. He just wants to be able to talk to his sister without snapping at her.

“It made me mad,” he says. Quieter, he adds, “And sad.”

“Why did it make you mad?”

“Because she basically got away with it. And I couldn’t tell people about the other werewolves she’d killed. I wasn’t well enough to say anything.”

“And why does it make you sad?”

Derek rolls his shoulders again. “Same reasons,” he says through a mouthful of sharp teeth. He can’t control his shift anymore. It comes and goes as it pleases, but it never stays long, and he’s not any stronger with it.

Deaton nods at the clock. “Time’s up. Your script will be filled at _Bartholomew’s_ today. I will see you again next week.”

Derek struggles off the couch, using the cane more to force his leg straight than for balance, a show of sorts. Fronting for the able-bodied person he used to be and desperately wishes he still were if only because he feels like a failure for not being able to heal. Deaton watches with his keen eyes, not offering the help that he and Derek know Derek needs but won’t ask for.

Eventually though, Derek concedes by lowering his head. He just can’t stand up. It’s enough to make him want to sob in frustration.

Deaton approaches slowly, makes sure he can see his hands at all times before he gently helps him up.

“Why can’t I heal?” Derek asks, not expecting an answer.

“It could be many things,” Deaton replies. “My guess? It’s mostly psychosomatic. It’s in your head and yet it’s not.”

Derek glares at him. “Do you think I don’t want to heal?” he asks harshly. He shakes the cane for good measure.

Deaton remains unimpressed. “It’s not that at all. Derek, you were put through a very traumatic event. Even as a werewolf, you should be dead. Your brain isn’t receiving the signals from your legs either because they were badly damaged or because your brain doesn’t think it needs to listen to a part of your body that shouldn’t be attached.”

“So either my brain is an asshole or I really am not healing,” Derek says.

“What does your physiotherapist think?”

“I don’t ask her. She makes me hurt more.”

“Maybe you should ask her. And maybe you should get your wounds checked again. There could be lingering aconite.”

“Homework?” Derek asks at the door.

“Stay away from articles about Kate Argent, keep a mood journal, talk to your physiotherapist, and try sleeping at least two nights without the aid of your prescription.”

Easy enough and yet Derek finds himself failing every week. For one, he _can’t_ sleep without the narcotics. Two, if Kate is free to live in his head, he’s within his rights to make sure she’s at least serving some time for her deeds. And three, he hates journaling with a passion.

He’s tried everything to make it more palatable, but he thinks that Deaton’s just going to have to give up on that one.

“See you next week.”

Derek limps out to where Laura is sitting, waiting for him. She helps him into her car.

“Erica called,” she says. “She wants to know if you want to go to dinner with her and Boyd tonight. Apparently they’re meeting another of their friends and want you to tag along so that it’s even.”

“No,” Derek says. He accepts his phone from Laura and opens a message thread with Erica.

She’s attached a picture of someone.

_Your type_ is what she wrote underneath it.

Derek studies the man’s face. Yeah. He’s definitely his type: inquisitive eyes, cupid’s bow lips, strong jaw. He’s not interested. He _isn’t_.

He hasn’t had the same libido since Kate tried to cut him in half.

He has actively tried jerking off many times, only to be disappointed that he never can get erect enough nor stay erect long enough to finish before the pain of moving his body makes trying hurt worse and worse each time.

_Not interested_ , he types to Erica. Laura starts driving, swings through a drive thru for coffee and two sweet rolls. She gives one of the rolls to Derek.

He pretends to nibble at it, realizing that he forgot to tell Deaton why he was actually talking for once. Whatever. Deaton’s smart. He’ll figure it out.

The phone buzzes.

_Yes you are. Please don’t leave me hanging._

_Do I have to?_

Erica doesn’t respond before Laura pulls into the garage, parks the car, and opens Derek’s door. He manages to pull himself out and get his leg straightened all by himself. And then he has to lean on Laura as much as the cane just to get up the one step into the house.

_I guess no_ , Erica finally sends when he’s sitting on his bed, Laura flitting about the room, picking out books and showing them to Derek.

“Hey, what happens if I go out with Boyd and Erica tonight?”

Laura pauses. “Nothing, I guess. Do you want me to come with?”

Derek thinks about that. Erica and Boyd are bitten wolves. They’re strong enough to help him if he needs it. And they’d wanted to even the number. Bringing Laura kinda tosses that out.

“I should be okay.”

Laura hands him the last book she picked up. When he takes it, she throws her arms around him and squeezes tightly.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says into his hair. He guesses because normally he would just cover his head with his pillow and ignore his phone until it dies.

Derek grabs her when she goes to pull away—the first time since before Kate took him. He’s afraid that he’s a disappointment to her, and he can’t pick up her chemosignals enough anymore to assuage that feeling, but he knows he wants to get better for her. He wants her to be proud of him always, not just when he’s going out with friends he’s been dodging for a year.

He’s terrified of what tonight might bring, but he wants to try.

For the first time in twelve months, he actually wants to try, and that scares him most of all.

~ * ~

Stiles wakes up to his phone going off.

He struggles up, wondering if Heather is going to grab it like she sometimes…Heather’s dead. No one will answer but him.

“’lo?” he grunts.

“Hey, it’s Boyd. I’m at your door. Let me in.”

Stiles turns his head so fast it cracks. “Ow,” he groans, rolling off the bed. He stumbles to the door and checks the window. Yep. Boyd, on his phone, is on his front step. Boyd waves at him and hangs up.

Stiles unlocks the door and opens it. “Time is it?” Stiles says around a yawn.

Boyd shakes his phone. “A little after 5:00. We’re meeting Erica and Derek at the restaurant in an hour. We just thought it’d be nice if one of us briefed each of you on the other.”

“Oh?” Stiles steps back so that Boyd can come in. “Anything interesting Erica is telling this—what did you say his name is—Derek about me?”

Boyd shrugs. “I’m not Erica,” he says. “I think she’ll just say the basics.”

Oh right. The basics. Would that be that Stiles is a widower? Or that he’s in such a depressive funk that he drove his own father away? Or that he has brown hair, brown eyes, used to smile a lot more before his wife was killed by a drunk driver?

“What basics?”

Boyd shrugs again. “Erica sent him your picture so that he knows what you look like. Here.” He shoves his own phone under Stiles’ nose.

It’s a fairly attractive guy. Good cheekbones, thick eyebrows. He’s glaring at the screen, and one of his eyes has the werewolf eye flare.

“Werewolf?” Stiles asks.

Boyd nods. He puts away his phone. “He went through something traumatic that kind of messed with his abilities though. If he shifts, he can’t control it, so please don’t make a big deal out of it.” He studies Stiles for a few long minutes before nodding sharply. “He was nearly killed. Don’t talk about it. Don’t talk about the fact that he’s a werewolf who needs a mobility aid. Don’t talk about anything Argent. Never say the name Kate. And please don’t be offended if all he does is glare. This is the first time since it happened that he’s going out in public without a reason.”

Stiles nods. He can respect trauma. He’d certainly not have a nice time if he went out for dinner with his friends and all that was talked about was the loss of Stiles’ wife.

“I can hold my tongue,” he assures Boyd. “It won’t be a problem.”

“Good. Now, not to be rude, but do you want to take another shower?”

Stiles sniffs at his pits. He can’t really smell anything, but Boyd’s a werewolf. Stiles’ whole house probably stinks to him.

“Yeah, okay, I can take a shower. Are you going to wait?”

“Yeah. I’m your ride.”

“Did you think I wasn’t going to come? Didn’t I ask you to meet me tonight?”

Boyd waves a hand at him. “Go, take a shower. Be glad you’re not using the gas in your Jeep today.”

Stiles grumbles under his breath as he gathers another set of clothes. The shower he takes is much shorter this time. Just long enough to soap up and wash away whatever stink Boyd thinks he has.

By the time he gets out, Boyd has stripped his bed and thrown the sheets in the washer. He’s also brought in some new pillows that he sets off to the side, waiting on the pillowcases to be clean. The bed has been sprayed with some kind of fabric refresher.

“Anything else?” he asks Stiles when he sees him just staring at him.

“Uh, no? Thanks?”

Boyd nods. “Good. We still have thirty minutes. Tell me about your day. Tell me about the places you’re going to apply to.”

Stiles smiles at him. Before he knows it, time is up and Boyd ushers him into his car for the short ride to the restaurant.

Erica’s red Mazda is already parked, and suddenly all the nervousness and worry comes rushing back. As well as a particularly painful stab that this means he’s getting over his wife if he’s going on a date again.

But it’s not a date. It’s just dinner with friends. Who are a couple. And have brought along their also single friend. Who Stiles just happens to think is attractive.

Shit.

It’s a date.

“It’s not a date,” Boyd says calmly. “Just breathe. You’re not here to be set up. You’re here because you needed company, and that’s all this is: it’s company.”

Stiles isn’t convinced, but he does find that he can draw in a steady breath now, so he unbuckles his seatbelt and follows Boyd as he heads into the restaurant.

Erica is sitting at a booth toward the back—all entrances visible, Stiles realizes—no way to be sneaked up on.

Sitting next to Erica is the guy Boyd showed Stiles a picture of. He’s even more attractive in person, but that could be because he’s not glaring. Instead, the closer Stiles and Boyd get, the more Stiles realizes that this guy is freaking out. He’s terrified, trying to stay in his seat, and probably needs the reassuring grounding of Erica’s hand on his knee.

Stiles looks to Boyd for direction.

Boyd just marches up to the table, kisses his wife’s forehead, and sits down across from the terrified guy.

“Derek, this is Stiles.”

Derek, that’s right. His name is Derek.

Stiles nods at him. Derek nods back, both of them giving each other a little side-eye.

“Stiles, this is Derek.”

Introductions done, silence descends.

Stiles picks at the wrapped silverware while Derek tenses and relaxes as Erica squeezes his leg.

As far as dates go, this one sucks, but not because of company.

Oh, that’s right. It’s not a date. It’s just company.

Stiles startles when the waiter stops by their table, takes down drink orders for all of them.

The guy, Derek he thinks—Stiles doesn’t know why his brain isn’t remembering his name—gets water, no ice. Stiles gets ice water, and Erica and Boyd each get a glass of Mello Yello.

Menus drop, and silence reigns again.

“Lovely weather we’re having,” Erica remarks as she flips a page in her menu. The rest of the table turns as one to stare at her. She continues, unperturbed. “The sun’s supposed to last through the weekend, but we’ll probably see a shower or two.”

“Dear,” Boyd says, “you hate talking about the weather.”

Erica claps her menu closed. “Yes, well, we’re not talking about anything else, are we? The weather might as well be our ice breaker.”

Boyd looks at his wife before closing his own menu. “I think you’re wrong about the showers. It’s not supposed to get hot enough for any meaningful evaporation. How are we supposed to have rain when there’s no humidity?”

Stiles closes his menu. He already knows he’s getting the smokehouse burger. It comes topped with an order of onion rings and three slices of bacon. Everything he didn’t let his dad have when he lived with him. If his heart is anything like his dad’s, he’s got about ten years before he really needs to dial back the unhealthy eating.

“It’s been nice, but I think we could use the rain. I mean, it can’t really hurt anything, can it?”

Under his breath, the guy mumbles, “We actually need it. We’re kind of in a drought right now.”

Boyd and Erica both smile even though he then ignores them for the rest of the night. He barely orders, and then it’s a salad with the grilled chicken and the dressing on the side.

In fact, the guy says so little much else, that Stiles completely blanks on his name. Again.

Whatever. Stiles finds he’s actually enjoying listening to Erica and Boyd carry the conversation. They’re a cute couple, and until the waiter brings out a cupcake, candles stuck in the icing, Stiles forgets that it’s their anniversary.

Afterward, he apologizes profusely. They should be at home celebrating, not hanging out with him and no-words across the table.

Boyd assures him it’s fine when he drives him home.

“I think we all had fun,” he says. Stiles sincerely doubts that because the guy they’d brought hadn’t said anything else all night and hadn’t moved until Stiles was already out, buckled into Boyd’s car.

Boyd switches the laundry to the dryer, digs out a few spare blankets Stiles didn’t know he had, helps him make the bed, and then heads out to finish his anniversary with his wife.

“Talk to you later, Stiles. Don’t forget to set an alarm.”

Boyd and Erica are awesome friends. Stiles really hates that he probably ruined their anniversary.

He sets his alarm and then changes into pajamas. He brushes his teeth, something that he doesn’t always have energy for. Two showers in one day, a dinner out with friends, brushing his teeth? Deaton is going to high five his hand sore next he sees him.

Stiles smiles at that thought and crawls into bed. He sends a silent thank you to Boyd because whatever he did made his bed more comfortable, and he’s able to close his eyes, slow his breathing and his mind, and slip off to sleep.

~ * ~

Derek gets home and goes to the computer. He’s not going to look at articles about Kate Argent. Not this time.

Instead, he searches for Stiles. Well, Mieczysław. He’d had Erica write it down so he could. What he finds is sad. Stiles, married to his high school sweetheart until three years ago when Heather died in a head on collision with a drunk driver. The drunk driver is still in jail.

She got seventeen years for manslaughter and driving under the influence.

Derek frowns. Kate killed at least four other werewolves and nearly killed him, and she got less time than a DUI-plus-manslaughter?

He shuts everything down and then limps into his room. He finds a piece of paper and a pencil and writes an apology note to Boyd and Erica. He hadn’t known it was their anniversary today. If he had, he wouldn’t have caved, no matter who was begging.

It was awkward to sit there and listen to everyone talking. Well, Erica and Boyd. Stiles had been pretty silent, his face unreadable.

Derek thinks he knows, though, what Stiles was thinking: who’s this loser?

He doesn’t know what Boyd told him but he knows in some way it was about what Kate did to him.

Stiles had pretended not to notice the cane hooked on the back of Derek’s chair. He also hadn’t mentioned Erica drawing his pain away.

It should have been refreshing not to be pitied, but it was more disconcerting that Erica had spun it as a date and Boyd obviously hadn’t.

Not that either of them were ready for dating.

Derek is trying to get unbroken for his sister, to stop being such a drain on her, and Stiles is still adjusting to live without his wife.

They are at different stages in their lives. And that’s okay.

But it doesn’t mean that they didn’t ruin Boyd and Erica’s anniversary.

Derek knows how their first child died. He knows that they’re ready to try again. Tonight would have been a good time except they got cock blocked by their friends.

To be fair, Erica had invited him out. And pressured him until he said yes. He doesn’t know what the deal with Stiles was.

“Hey,” Laura says from the doorway. Derek jumps, hissing in pain as his lower back and leg flare. Laura drains his pain quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you heard me knocking.”

“Just thinking about tonight,” he says, waving away her apology.

“Yeah? Good?”

“It was all right. Nothing spectacular. Hey, did you know that today is Boyd and Erica’s anniversary?”

“Is it? Hmm.” Laura frowns. “Why’d they invite you out, then?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, did you have fun at least?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good. Y’know?”

“A bit. Did you want to take a shower before bed or…?”

A shower would be great. Except Laura has a tub shower. She’s been meaning to get the bathroom down here remodeled but she doesn’t want to make Derek have to navigate the stairs especially because she can’t always be there for him.

“It’s either tonight or really early tomorrow because I have work,” she tells him.

“Tonight then.” He follows her to the bathroom, strips quickly. He didn’t used to be embarrassed about his body, but that was before his tattoo was sliced from his skin, patches peeled away to expose the muscle beneath, and his lower back bisected by a broadsword.

He’s also lost a lot of weight. Too ill to eat at first and now not hungry because the smell of food sometimes reminds him of his time with Kate—just a week, but what a fucking week—and he gets too nauseous to eat.

That’s the only thing he’s glad he can’t smell anymore: he has to be on top of a trigger smell before it makes him sick.

For now, he leans heavily on Laura and he lifts his worse leg into the tub, shuffle-hops, and holds his breath as Laura lifts him in.

The water runs cold for about a minute before it warms up enough for him to turn on the shower head.

He washes quickly, using the extra long scrub brush Laura got him when he complained that her helping him wash his ass reminded him of the hospital.

Laura sits on the toilet, reading a magazine she keeps there for that purpose.

Fifteen minutes later, he holds onto the towel rack while she dries him efficiently and wraps him in the fluffiest bathrobe she could find when he was released from the hospital.

“I’m sorry I’m such an asshole,” he says when she helps him back to bed.

“It’s your trauma doing that,” she chastises gently. “But hey, I’d rather you be here being an asshole than not here at all.” She hands him one of his narcotics and some water. He swallows the pill and drains the glass. Then, she drains his pain until he falls asleep.

~ * ~

Stiles gets up the next day, puts one foot in front of the other, and tries to make it to Saturday.

His dad looks good. A little thinner than Stiles remembers, a little more red-faced. He doesn’t have the best circulation, bad heart and all that.

Stiles sits across the table from him and just looks his fill. His dad studies him too.

“You look good,” his dad finally remarks.

“Feeling better,” Stiles admits. The adjustment to his dosage is doing wonders. Plus, he’s had a few nights where he hasn’t woken up looking for Heather. Instead, he’s hard and needs to take care of business. But it’s not always his beautiful wife’s face he imagines. Sometimes it’s the sour face of the guy from Erica and Boyd’s anniversary.

Stiles wishes he could remember his name. He’s sure there’s a story behind the little that Boyd told him. Werewolves don’t get close to death and lose their abilities. Something must have happened to him.

“How about you? You look like you’re not…”

“I’m fine, I promise,” Dad says. “It’s this new fitness regimen that the whole department is on. After all, if we’re supposed to be chasing after perps, we need to at least pretend we can keep up.”

“And your food?”

“One cheat day a month. And you know, most months I forget to use it. I’ve started cooking again.”

“Really?” Stiles doesn’t mean to sound so surprised but his dad hadn’t picked up an oven mitt in years unless it was to pull a prepared pizza from the oven.

“Really,” Dad confirms. “How about we get together for dinner one of these days?”

Stiles nods frantically. He wants his dad back so bad. He’s sorry for driving him away. He knows he was grieving, but that only excuses so much.

“Great. So, anything new in your life?”

“Got a few interviews scheduled next week and I’m going out to dinner with Erica and Boyd again.”

“That’s wonderful.” Dad chews on his lip for a bit before saying, quickly, like he’s trying to get it over with, “Anyone special yet?”

“Not really looking, Dad,” Stiles says. “And what about you? Anyone new in your life?”

“Ah, yes, actually.” Dad coughs. “It’s Melissa.”

“Melissa? Melissa McCall?” Stiles hasn’t thought of Scott in years. Not since he decided he wanted to live with his dad and left during junior high. They’d meant to keep in touch, but what twelve year old commits to writing letters and then forgets that they don’t know each other’s addresses anymore?

“How is Melissa these days?”

“Well fed,” Dad jokes, patting at his flattened stomach. Stiles wonders if he hugs the same now. His dad was the best hugger, a tight grip and a squishy belly. Stiles misses that most about his dad.

“I’d guess. Hey, I’ve actually got some supplies from Erica that I can’t use up before they go bad. Wanna have a crack at them?”

“Sure, why not?” Dad flags down the waiter and pays for their food. Then, he follows Stiles back to his house.

Using a reusable canvas bag, his dad sweeps through his kitchen, swiping all of the produce that Stiles honestly can’t be bothered to use.

He’s got some other stuff that’s not as old, and his dad leaves that.

Before he heads out, he hugs Stiles tightly, and it is and it isn’t the same all at once.

“I love you, son. Don’t forget to call.”

“I won’t,” Stiles promises.

Once his dad drives off, Stiles sits down at his laptop, pulls up a search engine and sends a text to Erica asking if she’s bringing her friend again.

She sends back confirmation.

Stiles sits at his computer, scanning his brain like a radio, trying to catch a hint of the guy’s name.

After about fifteen minutes, he has nothing, so he moves on to watching DIY projects, hoping for inspiration to strike. Instead, he just gets drowsy and eventually falls asleep at his kitchen table.

~ * ~

Derek has seven procedures in one week. Two on Wednesday, three on Thursday, and two on Friday. Wednesday and Thursday are blood tests to see if there are traces of aconite in his system. Wednesday also has a muscle biopsy. Thursday is an x-ray to see how his spine is doing and another on his legs.

Friday he goes under anesthesia to remove some decayed tissue and bone fragments that haven’t been healed since the last time this was done.

Saturday, he sits in bed, at home, recuperating while Laura worries because she has a date that she’s honestly rescheduled this whole week because someone needs to drive Derek to all his appointments.

Cranky, and in pain, Derek tries telling her that he’s fine, that she can go. He’ll survive the few hours she’ll be gone. She deserves to live her life. He refuses to be a burden. Laura roars at him to get him to stop.

“You are not and never will be a burden. Just because society claims that you’re now a defective cog does not mean that you are. You still have purpose and worth and I love you, Derek, but stop putting yourself down, goddammit!”

“If I stop, will you go on your date?”

She looks like she wants to agree, but then a shiver of pain slides up his leg, through his lower back, and he stifles a whimper as his muscles seize and everything hurts-hurts-hurts in time to his pounding heartbeat.

She’s by his side in an instant, draining his pain.

“Why don’t you call Erica and Boyd?” he says when he can talk again. “They can sit with me while you go on your date, and you’ll know I’m in good hands, so you can enjoy yourself.”

Laura contemplates this. She’s the alpha, but he feels like he gives more orders than her. She finally nods. “Sit tight. I’ll be back with one of your pills.”

She steps out, knowing he can’t hear her anymore. He lies back against the pillows, trying to breathe through the returning spike of pain.

Before it gets too bad, Laura is back, draining his pain again. “Erica said she and Boyd will be here in about fifteen minutes. Can you go that long without a drain?”

He swallows the pill she hands him and nods. “Go. I’ll be okay.”

Laura sets the bottle on the table next to him, puts a book there too, even though they both know that if he isn’t asleep, he’ll be in too much pain to read. She kisses his forehead and steps away before he can do more than blink at her.

“I love you, Derek. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He waves her away, leans back a little more, and waits for the narcotic to kick in.

Faintly, he can hear the door shut and her car start up. He waits until she pulls out on the road before he grabs the bottle, pops the tab, and swallows two more pills. And when relief doesn’t come instantly, two more.

When his vision starts graying around the edges, he manages to relax enough to start floating.

Not even Erica and Boyd’s arrival fazes him.

“Too much,” Boyd says. “He should be fine in about twenty minutes.”

“Shouldn’t we call someone?”

Derek’s eyes close, and he drifts, bobbing in a sea of nothingness while their disembodied voices fade in and out of his ears.

“Let him sleep. That’s probably why he took more today.”

“Oh, hey, Stiles wants to know if we can bring Derek on Tuesday again.”

Rustling by the bed.

“No appointments after 5:00.”

“Derek, hey, Derek.” Something taps on his face. He can barely feel it.

“Hmm?” he manages.

“Want to go to dinner with Stiles and us again?”

“P’tty,” he mumbles. “Sure.”

“Stiles is very pretty, isn’t he? I’m glad you think so. I told you he was your type.”

Derek doesn’t respond to that because he’s almost all the way down. Just a little further, and he’ll be asleep.

Bliss.

~ * ~

Stiles goes to his appointment with Deaton, talks about meeting with his father, talks about plans for the future.

Afterward, Deaton asks if he thinks he needs a meeting every week or if he wants to go down to once a month.

Stiles thinks about it. He’s been feeling good lately. Like, everything has a tinge of color to it that he hadn’t noticed before. The dosage he’s on is much better than the ones before. He feels more alive and less like he’s just plodding from one depressive episode to the next.

Now, he’s actually showering every day, he’s mowed his lawn for the first time in months, and he’s applied to a handful more jobs. He’s got an interview next Tuesday in Redding.

Overall, things are looking up.

And he’s sleeping better. He still wakes up thinking Heather must be in the bathroom at least twice a week, but he’s more likely to just get up and jerk off to a fantasy in his head.

Which is definitely no longer his wife. It’s for sure the guy. Stiles calls him Miguel in his head, and has so far chickened out on asking either Erica or Boyd for his name.

It doesn’t feel as weird if he calls him Miguel instead of his real name.

He’s pretty okay right now. Deaton gives him a high five for that, and another when he mentions that his dad hugged him and he hugged him back just as hard.

“I think we can try once a month,” he says, and Deaton beams at him.

“I will see you in one month. And Stiles, keep up the good work. I know some days are always going to be harder than others, but as long as you remember that you are a different person than you were the day before and what might have worked then won’t always work today. Keep your chin up. You’re doing awesome. You’re drawing breath.”

Stiles laughs, gently knocks Deaton’s shoulder with his fist. “I’ll try to remember that, Doc. See you next month.”

Stiles heads out into the sunshine, feeling it warm him down to his bones. It’s been a long time since he’s let it do that.

It’s a good day for a drive. And Stiles knows exactly where he needs to go: the graveyard.

Heather’s plot is well-kept. Stiles comes out once a month, just to sit and update her on all the things he’s been doing. It’s better than it was when she first died, and he spent damn near every night on the fresh dirt, sobbing because he was still alive and she wasn’t.

Now he sits down, sets up the flowers he brought with him, and talks to her about learning to love again.

“I think I’m ready,” he tells her, spinning his wedding ring. He doesn’t think he’ll ever take it off, even if he gets married again. He knows she just would want him to be happy. He presses on the ache her absence left. It hurts still, and it always will, but he’s glad that it’s dulled somewhat and he can at least think of her now without breaking into tears.

“I’m going back to work just as soon as I can find a job, my psychiatrist is backing me down to once a month instead of every week, and I met someone. I think I could learn to love. For sure, I’m in lust with them.”

The ground doesn’t answer. It never does. But Stiles imagines Heather smiling at him, bubbling about meeting someone else on the other side too.

He hopes if there is an afterlife, that she’s happy and not trapped in the eternal agony of her last few hours on Earth.

Stiles stands up after about an hour, dusts off his knees, and heads home.

Today is a good day.

~ * ~

Derek wakes up in the middle of the night. The urge to piss is pretty strong and he doesn’t know if he can wait for Laura to come get him.

He’ll have to try himself.

They used to keep a bucket by the bed, but with Laura’s nose, she could smell it anywhere in the house, and it had begun to stink to Derek’s mostly-human nose too, so he sucked it up, called her name when he needed the bathroom, and tried not to wet the bed.

Now, he fumbles for his cane, manages to knock it down. Shit. This is not working.

“Laura?” he calls. “I’m sorry. I need to pee.”

He struggles up, tries to swing his legs off the bed, and sees stars explode in his vision.

He’s not aware of screaming, but he’s certainly aware of being lifted and carried to the bathroom while someone has a hand pressed to his back, drawing pain.

When he comes back to himself, he’s been stripped down to his boxers, in a warm bath while Laura argues with someone just outside the door.

“Laura?” he whispers.

The arguing stops and his sister pokes her head in. “Yeah?”

“Did I wet the bed?”

“Just a little. It’s not a big deal. We’ll get it cleaned again.”

“Who’s with you?”

Laura sighs, reaching back blindly and then hauling into the room a man, taller than Derek, broader shouldered too, not that Derek is very broad shouldered anymore. He’s lost a lot of mass after his ordeal.

“This is Alex, my boyfriend.”

Alex flashes yellow eyes at Derek. Werewolf. Explains why he was able to lift Derek so easily.

“Nice to meet you, Alex,” Derek says. Normally, in a situation like this, he’d just grunt and hope to be left alone. He’s really trying here.

“Nice to meet you too,” Alex replies, voice low, a little rough. They were probably asleep when he woke them up. He kind of wishes he could smell if they’ve been together, but he’s also thankful he doesn’t have to know.

“Are you doing okay now?” Laura asks. Derek nods. “How’s the pain?”

It’s there but it’s dulled. He tells her as much. She smiles.

“Alex can drain it if it comes back again. I’m going to get your bed cleaned up.” She leaves the bathroom door open behind her.

“Thanks,” he calls after her belatedly.

“Hey, so,” Alex says suddenly. He rattles Derek’s narcotics bottle. “There’s supposed to be, like, twice as many in here. How many did you take?”

“What?” Derek reaches for the bottle and it jars his back and leg. He bites back a scream, and Alex slaps a hand onto his shoulder to drain some of the pain.

“Focus, buddy. Your pills. Are you taking too many?”

“What’s it to you?”

“You’re essentially human. Too many of these will wreck your kidneys. You could overdose and die. Do you really want to do that to your sister?”

Derek reaches for the bottle again. Alex lets him have it. “I can’t sleep without them,” he says, but even to his ears it sounds plaintive and whiny. He looks down at the bottle, shakes it. Yeah. He’s been taking too many. He just got this filled. Deaton won’t refill it for another month. If he runs out…Derek doesn’t relish that thought.

“Do you really need to take them or do you just like the way it makes you feel nothing?” Alex asks.

“What do you know about this?”

“My mother was an addict. Oxycontin was her drug of choice. Yours is Vicodin. Neither is good for the body in long term, large doses.”

Derek studies the bottle. “Could I really die from taking too many?”

“Yes,” Alex says bluntly. “Look, you survived a really traumatic event and I get that you’re still in pain, but self medicating like this isn’t the answer. Maybe you’ll never be pain free, but you certainly wouldn’t be in as much pain if you slowed down your intake. The pain you’re going through is likely caused by withdrawal. It gets worse the longer between your doses, right?” Derek nods. “Yeah. Withdrawal.” He holds out his hand and Derek surrenders the bottle easily.

He hadn’t realized what he was doing to himself. To Laura. That right there is a bucket of cold water dropping on his head.

By taking too many pills, he’s actually hurting his sister.

He needs to give them up.

He’ll talk to Deaton about it at his next appointment.

For now, he leans his head back, breathes through the twinge of his back, and closes his eyes.

~ * ~

Stiles cuts himself shaving again.

He wonders why his hands are shaking. It’s not like he hasn’t been on job interviews before. It’s just this one is close to what his old job was, and the person interviewing him knows Dr. Morrell.

He manages to clot the cut and then changes into a decent shirt and nice pants. He ties a tie around his neck, slicks a little product in his hair to keep it out of his eyes, and then drives out to Redding.

The interview goes well, he thinks. They say they’ll be in contact in a couple weeks. Stiles drives home on autopilot.

He changes again, dicks around on his computer to waste time, and stumbles on an article about some woman who was arrested in Beacon County for torturing a werewolf almost to death.

It’s close enough to what Boyd said happened to the guy, so Stiles reads it.

Jesus, but Kate Argent really needs to go to a special section of hell.

She’d apparently stalked and abducted a werewolf, held him captive for a week, and mailed body parts to his family.

The werewolf isn’t named so Stiles can’t be sure it’s the same guy, but he’s pretty sure there aren’t a lot of disabled werewolves in the world. Either they heal from everything or they die.

Sounds like this guy almost did die and that it’s a miracle that he’s alive.

_Don’t talk about anything Argent,_ Stiles hears in his memory. _Never say the name Kate._

Yeah. This werewolf is the werewolf that is friends with Erica and Boyd.

Oh man, how horrible! And Kate didn’t even get very long. Stiles finds her sentence. Seven years. That’s like a slap on the wrist compared to what she did to that guy. Heather’s killer got more time.

Stiles searches a little bit more and finds a dark-web video of the guy’s testimony.

Curiosity wins out and he opens it.

The shot is a little out of focus. It’s a hospital room. Stiles recognizes it from when his mom was dying. Seen one, seen them all.

There’s a man on the bed. Definitely the same guy as Erica and Boyd’s friend.

He’s awake but doesn’t look conscious.

There’s a woman, enough similar features that Stiles thinks they’re related, leaning over the man. _“Derek?”_

The man barely responds. He’s too far out of it.

_“This is Daniel Granger with the State of California District Attorney’s Office,”_ a voice behind the camera says. _“We are currently in the hospital room of Derek S. Hale, the alleged victim of Kate Argent.”_

_“Alleged,”_ the woman mutters, biting off the rest of that sentence. _“Derek, can you open your eyes, bud?”_

No response.

_“I would come back another time,”_ the prosecutor says, _“but this is being submitted as evidence on behalf of Derek S. Hale. He is nowhere near ready to testify. We ask for a continuance if we are to hear his testimony.”_

_“Here’s what I know,”_ the woman says. _“My brother went missing on March 14, 2012. He was found one week later. It’s been three months.”_ Her eyes are sharp, shining with tears, a reddish glow to them. Alpha werewolf, Stiles thinks.

_“I was sent a piece of skin from Derek. His triskelion tattoo. It was on his back, between his shoulders. Now it’s State’s Evidence. On his skin was a scent.”_ Her eyes go straight red. _“I’m an alpha werewolf,”_ she explains. _“Derek is my beta. Our senses are much stronger than a human’s. On the tattoo that was sent to me, I smelled someone else. I enlisted the help of the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department, and together we traveled around the county, searching for that scent.”_ Her head drops, and she sobs once.

_“It’s okay. Take your time.”_

_“When we finally found it, it was in a shack, deep in the preserve. An illegal hunter’s cabin.”_ Stiles jumps when she barks out a strangled laugh. _“She called herself a hunter. I will never forget the scene we walked in to. My brother hanging by his arms in the center of the shack, bloodied and not healing and that woman, that Kate Argent, hacking at his waist with a broadsword. She’d soaked the blade in aconite. It’s why he’s not healing. The doctors don’t know if they got it all, and obviously, his healing hasn’t kicked in yet.”_

_“Kate Argent was arrested on March 21, 2012,”_ the prosecutor says. _“She is currently standing trial for assault with a deadly weapon, intent to inflict bodily harm, torture, kidnapping, attempted murder, and poaching. She was apparently illegally acquiring food for herself and her alleged victim during the week she was at that shack.”_ He sighs. _“You know none of this is admissible, right?”_

_“I don’t care. Someone needs to know what she did. She can’t just get away with it.”_

The video ends with the woman leaning over the man, Derek, and pressing a kiss to his forehead. He still doesn’t react.

Stiles sits back.

No wonder Boyd didn’t want him to say anything. Holy Hell is that bad.

And apparently a year after the events of that video, Derek still isn’t fully healed. He’ll probably never be fully healed. Poor guy.

Stiles looks at the clock. It’s almost time for him to meet Erica and Boyd at the restaurant. He’s driving himself this time.

He shuts down his computer, washes his hands even though they’re not physically dirty, and grabs his wallet and keys.

He can’t get his mind off the video, off the way Derek, a werewolf, just lay on the bed, delirious and mumbling things that couldn’t be heard. He was probably trapped in some way, stuck in that shack with Kate Argent. Hacking at him with a wolfsbane-soaked blade. Trying to kill him, definitely torturing him.

How she only got seven years is a mystery. Was there sympathy for her because she’s human and the Hales are werewolves? What about the part where she tortured and nearly killed Derek?

He doesn’t even know how he gets to the restaurant much less without getting into an accident because he’s definitely distracted.

Boyd sniffs him. “What did you do?” he demands.

Stiles just stares at him.

“What. Did. You. Do?”

“I watched a video,” Stiles says. “And you know which one.”

“Do not mention it. At all.” Boyd is hissing.

Stiles holds up his hands. “Not a word.”

Boyd studies him before nodding sharply. It’s déjà vu for Stiles. He thinks they went over this same thing when Boyd first told him part of Derek’s story.

Speaking of. Erica comes up to the curb, and on her arm is Derek.

He looks like shit, to be honest. He has dark circles under his eyes and he’s leaning heavily on Erica while he uses a cane to prop up his right side while he drags his left leg.

Stiles doesn’t stare. Instead, he focuses on Derek’s face, wondering just what werewolf traits he still has.

He thinks it might be none. Derek doesn’t seem particularly werewolf-y right now.

“It’s been a long day,” Erica says. “Mind if we sit out here tonight?”

Stiles picks out a table that allows a view of all sides, pulling out a chair for Derek and then Erica. Boyd pulls out his own chair and then Stiles’ too.

“It’s a lovely night,” Stiles remarks, trying to break the ice he can feel forming.

Neither Boyd nor Erica respond, too busy having a conversation with their eyes. Or maybe their mouths too. Probably speaking too low for human ears to hear.

Derek clears his throat. “I think it’s been a bit hot lately.”

Stiles smiles at him. “Well, it is California.”

Derek tentatively returns the smile before it abruptly drops off his face. “Hey, so can I drop something heavy on you?”

“Sure.”

“I think I’m addicted to my painkillers.”

Both Boyd and Erica’s heads snap to the side and they stare at Derek.

He doesn’t meet their eyes, too busy picking at the edge of the table.

“How often do you take them?” Stiles asks. “How long have you been on them?”

“Every night,” Derek replies softly. “And ever since I got injured.”

“So, a year-plus,” Stiles says. “Okay. How many do you take a night?”

“When no one’s watching? Sometimes three, sometimes five. Just enough that everything goes a little fuzzy. It makes it easier to sleep.”

“I imagine. But it’s going to be a bitch to come off them. They’ll need to be highly regulated. Are you ready for that?”

Derek lifts his head, slowly, like it’s taking all his energy. “I’m tired of who I am. I want to change. I’m ready.”

Stiles reaches across the table, lets Derek decide if he wants to put his hand in his. When he does, Stiles squeezes gently. “We’ll be here for you. Every step of the way.”

Derek squeezes back. “Thank you.”

~ * ~

After dinner, Derek allows Boyd to carry him back to his and Erica’s vehicle. He’s so tired, his confession taking more out of him than he was expecting. He’s glad that Alex talked to him a few nights ago. It really put things into perspective. And also explained why he’s been having trouble with waking up to pee in the middle of the night.

Stiles walks with them even though he’s parked a little closer to the restaurant. It’s Derek’s fault that Erica had to park so far away. He needs to get one of those little handicap parking signs so that when he rides with someone, they can park closer and he doesn’t end up wiping himself out.

Laura’s been begging him to get one ever since he was discharged, but he’s been dragging his feet, hoping that some miracle will happen, that they’ll find a piece of aconite—even though he knows Kate used an extract—that’s keeping him from healing and as soon as they take it out, he’ll be good to go again.

It’s becoming increasingly obvious that he’s like this for life.

He was letting it turn him bitter, but he doesn’t want that anymore.

He just wishes he had his libido back because whenever Stiles licks his lips, Derek thinks they’d look good wrapped around something else, but that something else never seems to have the same idea.

“I knew you took too many pills,” Boyd says quietly, guiltily, Derek realizes. “I just didn’t realize it was more than just a few times when the pain was too bad.”

“Alex says it’s because it was a cycle: the more pain killers I took, the worse my pain was when they wore off. I’m going to get into treatment. I promise. It’s no one’s fault but my own.”

“We still should have seen it,” Erica insists.

Stiles raises a hand. “If I may?” He leans into the car and fixes Derek with a calm look. “You’ve admitted that you have a problem and you want help. There is no blame. Not even on you. Things change our brains: events, chemicals, memories. Things happen that we have no control over, and we do our best to get along.” He turns his calm gaze onto Boyd and Erica. “Just because we have some of the knowledge, it doesn’t mean we always know how or when to use it. When Derek comes to you for help, don’t spend your energy on what-ifs or blame games. Work on the here and now. Make tomorrow better than today was. That goes for you too, Derek.”

He steps back, digs in his wallet and hands each of them a card. “I used to work as a marriage counselor. My specialty was defusing tense situations. I was also very good at helping people understand when they were to blame and when they weren’t. If you need any guidance in that area, I am always available. I am also available as just a friend.”

Derek tucks Stiles’ card into his own wallet. “I really appreciate that,” he tells him.

Boyd and Erica both nod their agreement.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you later. Call me anytime. I’ll try to be available.”

“You don’t always have to be.” Derek doesn’t think he wants to put that burden on Stiles. It wouldn’t be fair. He vows to only call Stiles “anytime” if it’s a dire emergency. Anything else can wait.

“That was really kind of Stiles,” Erica says, climbing into the driver’s seat. Boyd shuts Derek’s door and gets into the passenger seat. “I think we should make Tuesday night dinners a thing. We could probably have them at our houses.” She meets eyes with Derek in the rear view mirror. “We’ll do our best not to have obstacles in the way.”

“Obstacle away,” Derek says. “It’ll give you some privacy. I’ve been known to be a little snoop.”

“Not since you were ten years old, Derek Sebastian Hale,” Erica laughs.

It feels good to laugh after the topic of the night. Derek is glad that Erica and Boyd didn’t let him push them away. And he’s glad he’s getting to know Stiles too.

~ * ~

Stiles wholeheartedly agrees with the Tuesday night dinner idea. He cleans his house top to bottom since it’s the only one without stairs and it even has a walk-in shower. He has a spare room that he sets up with an orthopedic, height-adjustable bed with his first paycheck. _Redding Counseling Services_ hired him. He’s working again.

The first night they have dinner at his house, Derek looks even worse. He’s obviously detoxing, but he’s having a rough go of it.

Stiles offers his spare room and shower to make the transition easier. He adds a shower chair to sweeten the deal, and Derek takes him up on the offer. With one werewolf comes another. Stiles finally meets Derek’s sister Laura. He likes her. She’s snappy, brilliant, and cares deeply about her brother.

She also uses the time that Derek spends at Stiles’ house to remodel her downstairs bathroom with a shower stall, chair, and a door that connects to Derek’s room so that it will be easier for him to use.

All in all, Derek spends about two months at Stiles’ house. And while Derek has a few really bad days and then seems to turn a corner and get better, Stiles has a few days where he doesn’t feel like himself even with Derek sitting by his bed, just letting him sleep off his depression.

Derek’s a good roommate when he’s not screaming obscenities because the pain is getting too much for him, and there’s no werewolves on hand to help drain some of the pain. Which, to be fair, is only for, like, a week. Then he starts interacting with Stiles, chatting with him in the mornings before Stiles has to go to work. He does little chores too, ones that don’t strain his still unhealed body and that make Stiles stare at his kitchen with no expression but make him feel like his world is getting unmanageable again.

And every Tuesday, Erica and Boyd stop by to check on them and continue their budding tradition.

At one of those Tuesday night get-togethers, Erica and Boyd announce that they’re pregnant, and Stiles immediately offers free babysitting services and a gift basket.

After all, Erica and Boyd introduced him to Derek, and he has to thank them somehow.

It is getting harder to keep calling the fantasy in Stiles’ head Miguel when he has Derek right there. He doesn’t want to be weird though, so he never brings up his lust-crush. Which might actually be becoming more of a love-crush the longer he and Derek live together.

Derek likes Stiles’ cooking, gives him compliments every time. He cooks a little too sometimes. He takes up knitting when his hands finally stop shaking. And he asks respectful questions about Stiles’ life with Heather while offering some information about himself.

They get along really well. And Stiles has so many images to use for his spank bank. He thinks Derek is starting to jerk off as well because sometimes he takes a while in the shower.

Boyd always taps his nose when he walks in, some kind of signal that neither of them understand and Erica won’t explain.

Then the two months is over, and Laura declares her house ready for Derek again.

“I’m sorry Heather was taken from you,” Derek tells Stiles the night before he’s supposed to go back to Laura’s.

“I am too, but life has gotten a lot easier lately, I must admit.”

Stiles is making cookies so that Derek can take some home with him for Alex. Who has moved into Laura’s house while Derek’s been gone.

“Alex is the one who pointed out that I had a problem with my painkillers.”

“I think you always knew,” Stiles says, stirring in a heaping helping of chocolate chunks. “When you’re not watching your words, you always call them narcotics, not painkillers. You knew, subconsciously, at least, that they weren’t good for you the way you were using them.”

“Either way, I’m glad I’m off them now.”

“Oh? Is the pain any better?”

“It’s still there, but at least I can get a boner now.”

“What?!” Stiles chokes on his spit.

That isn’t something he needs to know, right? He watches Derek out of the corner of his eye. Derek keeps moving his needles, a lopsided scarf taking shape. He’s still a beginner by any means, but it’s really cool to watch him work a line of yarn into something with purpose.

“Did the painkillers lower your blood pressure?”

Derek shakes his head. “My libido,” he clarifies. “Did you know that Erica invited me out to dinner that first time because you’re my type?”

Stiles sets the spoon down and then sits down across from Derek, who conveniently doesn’t look up from his scarf. “I’m your type?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve always had a type. You just happen to be it.”

“You mean, what, male?”

“Male, handsome.” Derek shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like he doesn’t know that Stiles has been jerking off to his face ever since he first saw it and couldn’t remember his name but wanted to suck his cock.

“Well I think you’re my type too.”

Finally Derek looks up. He sets his scarf down, stabs the needles into the ball of yarn. “Yeah?”

Stiles swallows. It’s so hard to commit to something like this. He knows he’d have Heather’s blessing, but it still takes a lot of courage to open his mouth and say, “I’ve been thinking about kissing you.”

“Yeah?” Derek says again. “I’ve been kind of wanting to do that and other things.”

“Other things?”

Derek points at Stiles’ mouth. “You have the perfect mouth.”

“Perfect for what?”

Derek licks his lips. “Let me show you?”

Stiles leans back in his chair. “Okay. Show me.”

“Can we go…?” He points toward the room he’s been staying in.

Stiles nods and then follows him to the room. Derek sits down on the bed, motions Stiles closer. He lowers the bed so that his head is in line with Stiles’ crotch.

“This might be a little awkward. The last time I did this, I was flexible.”

“Did what?” Stiles’ brain short circuits when Derek’s hands land on his belt. He undoes it and opens his fly, pulling his pants and boxers down enough to free his cock.

Derek looks up at Stiles and that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but Stiles has literally been fantasizing about this for months.

“Okay?”

Stiles nods. “Okay.”

Derek licks his lips, uses two fingers to lift Stiles’ rapidly filling erection, and points it at his mouth.

Stiles bucks a little into the wet heat of his mouth. He groans. It’s been years since he last had a mouth on him. He’s going to come embarrassingly fast. He tugs a little at Derek’s hair, careful not to pull too hard to tweak his back. He doesn’t want to cause pain, just warn him.

Derek takes it as encouragement and leans in closer, lips down halfway. He breathes in through his nose, puts his free hand on Stiles’ lower back and walks him forward until the head of his cock hits the back of Derek’s throat. He retches a little and then swallows, and Stiles’ dick goes deep into his throat.

Oh hell, Derek took him to the root. Derek is sucking him off and deep throating him at the same time. A little scrape of teeth, and Stiles comes with a shout. His hands flex in Derek’s hair, tugging as gently as he can considering Derek hasn’t pulled off yet.

He’s gagging on Stiles’ cock and still he won’t let go. Stiles tries to relax, leans into Derek a little more. His cock is softening, shrinking back, until finally Derek lets him fall out.

He gasps a little, lips reddened, tears in his eyes. He clears his throat and it sounds rough.

“Sorry. Should have warned you, I like a little asphyxiation with blow jobs. It helps me come too when I give them.” Derek points at his own crotch.

Stiles looks down, sees the spreading wet spot.

“Well, now I know for next time.” He raises the bed, sits next to Derek. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Sex?” Derek asks. “Or a relationship?”

“Both. I mean, I’m probably going to call you by my dead wife’s name at some point. And I will probably hurt you if we get a little raunchy.”

“I can handle it. Both the name and the pain. I just don’t want you to get mad at me when you realize just what I want to do with you.”

“With a little warning, I’m sure I can come around just fine,” Stiles assures him. “Now. I believe I was in the middle of making cookies. And I think you might need another shower.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me so soon?” Derek says. He sounds serious, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “You’re really killing the afterglow.”

“Well, if you really want to deal with sticky underwear for about half an hour, I can bake my cookies and then we can go round two in the shower.”

“Kinky,” Derek says. He bumps shoulders with Stiles. Stiles turns to face him and gets a kiss that only vaguely tastes like his own cock.

“I think it’s you who’s the kinky one,” Stiles says. “But not gonna lie. I kinda dig it.”

The smile he gets in return is the brightest he’s ever seen on Derek. It’s a good look for him. Almost as good as the memory of him going down on Stiles.

His cock gives an interested twitch.

“Half an hour,” he tells it and Derek. “Thirty minutes.”

“Better get started then,” Derek says. “Or I might just have to take care of myself.”

“How much time does it take for you to reset?” Stiles asks.

Derek laughs. “I’ve been backed up for a year now. You get your thirty minutes, and not a second longer. Not if you want to come again today.”

Stiles pulls Derek to him, carefully, and kisses him again. “Race you.”

~ End ~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you think I've missed a tag, let me know!


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